


Consanguineous

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-01
Updated: 2006-03-02
Packaged: 2019-01-19 21:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12418473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Caged in between those skeleton pages lie those who never really left the barren cells.





	1. The Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
Author's notes: 1  


* * *

**Summary:**  Caged between those skeleton pages lie those who never really left the barren cells.

**Authors Note:** Thanks to Anna for the summary. Er. And thanks to Anna and Margaret for betaing it. :)

\--

“High Security Cell 108.”

He barely hears the woman call out his cell number as five guards surround him, their eyes gleaming of speculation and interest. How the mighty have fallen—Lucius Malfoy to prisoner. He doesn’t put a fight as they drag him, his feet making lengthy valleys in the once flat dirt. His eyes are dull, his face contorted in a grimace of shame.

It’s all turns and turns; he has long lost sense of direction. There’s a woman on his left in a cell, her gaunt features in a look of disbelief and she stretches out her bony arm slowly as he passes and flips it over. He flinches, even in his weakened state. She bares her teeth at him.

He wants it to end, the ghastly screams, the hollow eyes of all that he passes. A guard looks at him suddenly, and he sees that the guard’s eyes are filled with the horror that he has lived in. _It’s like a skeleton in your closet_ , he thinks, _it keeps on eating at you until you’re nothing left a wisp of shadow._ The trip to his cell and he's never wanted to go any place more.

They stop moving him and he looks up from his feet. It’s one of the few dementors left in Azkaban and it's passing him on another line of cells. It turns to face him.

_…Father, why are you doing this? You’re hurting me…_ Crucio _...What are you doing! Somebody help me…you raped a ten year old girl, Lucius. How could you?…Son, you will join our Cause and be greater than me, greater than anyone else the Lord has seen…_

He wants to scream and scream until all the remnants of dignity that he has drop to the ground and burn. It’s as if he’s has never felt happy, never felt the thrill of torture, never had the sun touch his skin.

His legs burn from walking, and he turn his head up in desire of anything, anything but the gray skies he wants to obliterate just like he has done to any happiness that his family might ever have. 

It’s a damned cloudy day.

He’s thrown into his cell and faces the wall, while looking out of the corner of his eye and wants anyone to turn back to tell him that he might survive in this place. 

They don’t.

Sighing, he moves closer to the corner of the wall—and feels something other than the dirt. It's a round and thin object, with something rectangular under it. His eyes suddenly having a spark of interest and he digs with his fingernails crusted with blood.

It’s a _book_ and a quill.

It’s a ragged book, marred with ink stains, ripped pages, and too many tears. He looks curiously at the title. _Consanguineous_ , it says and a light smirk grazes his features. Looking through the pages, he finds them full of blots of ink, nothing readable. It’s a curse, he knows it, and he feels a scintilla of joy as he remembers a spell that he once used like this many years ago to transfer information to a certain Pettigrew. He turns the book over to its cover.

Silently, he grasps the quill with his hand with bones sticking out visibly and pricks himself on the tip of his ring finger. A drop of blood crawls down his finger and he watches it fall onto the cover. Words form from the ink in front of his eyes and he looks around to see if any guards are coming in both directions.

He stands up slowly and walks to the front of his cell, looking to see anyone. 

There’s no one left in the row but him.

He sits down, as slowly as he stood up, and flips open the first page.


	2. Entrance

**Chapter I: Entrance**

**Author’s Note:** I got the idea for this story from Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day. Wonder what it was, huh?

**\--**

**1982**

It’s as if everything’s turning, everything’s changing—except you that is. Delirium is usual, with the occasional fragment of maddening rage or sorrow.

Welcome to Azkaban. 

Nothing matters anymore; the names, the blood, the emotions all melts away from the moment you step in the entrance because you’ve melted into the conformity of despair. Whether you’ve killed a thousand or an innocent, you’re simply just Prisoner #____ and that’s who are you for the rest of your life. To the rest of the world, the name Bellatrix Lestrange is one that is spoken in a whisper, a deathly whisper. To all the inmates in Azkaban, Bellatrix Lestrange means nothing else than Prisoner #2476.

There are times when I can almost feel Bellatrix again, even feel Bella, but it’s been disappearing as my days are numbering here. I’ve come to know the prisoners around my cell better than myself, because everything I’ve known is falling apart before me. One day, I can stretch my fingers toward the sky and feel the clouds, the sky, and _oh blessed freedom._ But it’s dull the next day, a black-and-white movie turned to reality. 

_Bellatrix Lestrange,_ _Prisoner #2476_

\--

There’s a small crack in the wall behind me, and sometimes, if I hold my ear there for long enough, I can almost hear the waves crashing, the stormy fall weather. 

I remember a time when I would go down with little Narcissa into the salty water. She would gargle and splash, while I would stand above her. Narcissa would ask in that voice of hers, “Bella, Bella, come play with me.” 

I never did.

Narcissa would always grab at my legs, a poor attempt to pull me down, but she would always smile no matter how cold my refusal was. Laughing, she would find her amusement in splashing me; she always was able to find joy in anything. 

Later, she found companionship with Sirius, when they would toss sand at each other and dare each other to see who could go farthest into the murky water. They began to stop asking me to join them, and they became lost in the fantastical world of theirs that they shared and delighted in. I would bring a book and sit on the dry sand, drowning in the stories of wizarding folk and magic.

The clearest memory I have of them was when Narcissa was around ten and Sirius, six. They, as usual, raced down to the shoreline, scrambling over people, tripping in the hot sand.

Sirius yelled, “Cissy, I bet you don’t know what a sandcastle is.” Narcissa flushed, and by this time, I had known my sister well enough to see that she hated not knowing things. She stuttered a few times, and I flipped around, looking at Mother and Father to check if they had seen their golden child do such a thing.

“A castle made of sand!” Narcissa said, and Sirius’s grin faded slightly. Their banter had more competition in it than what it seemed like, yet they were closer than any two siblings in our family at the time. I never truly understood why they wanted to defeat each other so much—Sirius, I could understand, but Narcissa was a mystery.

Sirius then challenged Narcissa to see who could make the better sandcastle before they left, and to my surprise, Narcissa accepted. He, with his stubby legs, walked up to me next and said, “Bella, will you be our judge?” I was surprised at this, because I knew that Sirius had always favored Andromeda over me. However, I nodded and he smiled toothily at me.

“Go!” I said, watching the two cup their hands in preparation and began digging furiously. Growing bored, I returned to my book and when I finished it, I looked up, to see two marvelous “sandcastles”, Sirius called it. The sculptures were glistening in the sunset, their tall towers covered with sticks and flowers.

Narcissa’s attracted my attention first, because of the class and elegance that it had. There were no crumbling towers or walls, yet the whole of the sandcastle was covered in purple and pink flowers and grass. She had even created a closed door with two windows, I guessed. Every wall on the castle was solid and compact with sand coated in water. From my vision, meters away, it was small yet tasteful in the elegance it had.

I turned to Sirius’s castle, and I wasn’t surprised to see that it looked like a castle under attack on a high hill of sand. There were sticks in front of the walls, whom I assumed to be soldiers, and the walls looked as strong as Narcissa’s, yet somehow, I knew that there were many problems to them. Somehow, Sirius had managed to build a moat around the castle, forgetting to leave a walkway to the castle. The floor around the castle was filled with dainty flowers, similar to Narcissa’s, but the castle was forbidding in its plain architecture and lack of windows.

Suddenly, I felt Sirius poke me, with Narcissa giggling behind him. He asked boldly, “Whose is better, Bella? Mine or Narcissa’s?” 

I thought for a moment. “I like yours better, Sirius.”

_Bellatrix Lestrange,_ _Prisoner #2476_

\--

The rain is unrelenting, and I feel as if I lose more of myself everyday. It’s misery being Azkaban when you know that you lose everything here—your youth, your memories, your sanity. Yesterday, I was in a state of drowsy disorientation, when Rodolphus started screaming, screaming with such agony that even the human guards came to check on him. He was clutching his head tightly, the whites of his knuckles showing, and I wanted to die at that moment because it was so difficult to bear. Rabastan, nearest to him, tried to reach to him through the bars of the cell, but Rodolphus only screamed louder.

I heard him howl, “Merlin, help me. Merlin, help me. _Anyone, help me,_ ” over and over again. A guard then entered the aisle, dragging a dark-haired man with him. The guard bared his teeth at us, a dementor or two following him. I shivered, moving closer toward the wall, where drafts tended to not enter. Rodolphus looked up, his screaming stilled, and he recoiled in shock at the stranger, I assumed. 

“Make yourself at home here, Black.” I heard a man’s laughter and the door slam shut next to mine. Peering through the cold bars, I looked at the man in surprise at his last name.

He looked up, smiled briefly, and said, “Hello Bellatrix.” I gasped, struggling to keep my face under control, my eyes from showing the emotion that I knew it would. 

Oh Sirius Black, I would have never guessed you would’ve ended up here.

Sirius turned away, curling against the wall, and closed his eyes in a semblance of calm. It was so uncharacteristic, though I remembered that the last time I had seen him was when he was in Fifth Year. He looked so tired, that I knew he had been here longer than me, for his face replayed all the horrors he had seen. 

I asked him, “How long have you been here?” He looked at me with those ghostly eyes and said, “A year, two weeks, and four days.” It was astonishing that Sirius Black, our dearest family traitor who turned for Dumbledore’s side, would end up here where so many of his enemies lay.

Rodolphus motioned to me and I moved toward the door. He hissed, “What the hell is he doing here?” I shook my head and walked toward the side of my cell, sitting down. There was silence, as I watched him take a medium sized stone and mark lines on his walls—for the days he had been here, I realized. He finished soon enough and looked at me, with the gray eyes so like my own.

“How long did it take you to get caught?” Sirius’s voice was raspy with lack of use, and I turned away. 

Coolly, I said, “Only getting caught torturing the Longbottoms until their pathetic brains were melted into mush. It was useless anyway—they didn’t know anything. Yourself, Sirius?” Sirius glared at me.

“I’m innocent,” he said, with fury laced under his words. 

Rolling my eyes, I brushed my hand through my stringy hair and drawled, “That was quite obvious Sirius. You were always a coward, to scared to do anything but to follow your friends.” 

He clenched his hands, saying, “You always knew how to push me, Bella.” I noticed his jaw clenching and was so ashamed at him in that moment for his lack of control—the thing that every Black should have.

“Then let me rephrase the question. _Who_ got you into Azkaban?” He turned away.

Sirius said coldly, “Why should I tell you, Bella?” 

“Ah, so you have gained half a brain.”

Barty, on the other side of me, had tossed a stick at my back, trying to get my attention. I called irritably, “What, Barty?” He motioned toward himself, and I sighed. Following his directions, I sat on the bench as he said, “I know how Sirius Black got in here.”

His mother had visited him a few days ago, with her tears spilling over for the two hours she was allowed. Poor woman, I thought cynically, she would never understand that her dear child would have ever done such a thing. Barty said, “You remember Peter Pettigrew?” I nodded.

“Well, apparently, Black over there found out about why his dearest friends died and challenged Pettigrew to a duel in the middle of a Muggle street. Always was never right in his mind, I always thought. Somehow, Black knew a curse that would blow up the whole street, and he killed twelve Muggles and Pettigrew. Never expected it of him.” It wasn’t right, I knew, because Sirius had always had a heart for Muggles and those Muggle-lovers. 

Barty grinned and continued. “So he got sent here without a trial. My father did one good thing at least. You think Black did it? I didn’t think he would have the nerve, if you know what I mean.” It was hard to decide who I hated more—Pettigrew for killing the Dark Lord or Sirius for betraying our family. But if anything, Sirius Black could never have done it. Oh, that left only…

Fate truly is shit.

_Bellatrix Lestrange,_ _Prisoner #2476_

\--


End file.
